As soon as the three of them were settled at
the table Margaret raised the subject of chess. Arden then
suggested that he teach his sister to play. Catherine readily
agreed to the idea, so as soon as the servants were finished
clearing away the last of the food, Arden set up the chessboard.
When he and Catherine were seated across from each other at the
table Margaret moved to a nearby stool. With two candles placed
close for lighting she went to work on the mending.
For the next few hours the talk was all of
chess moves, or whether it was time to put another log on the fire,
or whether Sir Wace was correct in his prediction that yet more
snow would fall soon.
“Do you know how he makes his predictions?”
Margaret asked her companions. She was unable to keep her lips from
twitching and she noticed Arden's puzzled glance in her direction
at the humorous tone of her voice.
“I cannot begin to guess,” said Catherine,
“though I do recall that he is almost always accurate.”
“It’s his toe,” Margaret said. “Sir Wace's
left big toe always aches when a storm is coming.”
“No!” exclaimed Catherine, shaking her head
in disbelief.
“He told me so himself,” Margaret said. “Sir
Wace claims it has been the case ever since his foot was injured in
battle and his toe healed crooked. The entire kitchen staff and all
of the men-at-arms agree it's true. The seneschal's aching big toe
is a signal that never fails.”
Catherine giggled at this information and,
for a moment or two, Arden actually seemed to be amused. When they
returned to their game, Margaret smiled at them, delighted by the
effect of her remarks.
As the evening progressed Margaret noticed
how often Arden avoided giving direct answers to Catherine's
questions about his years in the Holy Land. He did so by making
unexpected moves with his chessmen, followed by demands that
Catherine prove her understanding of the game by explaining the
consequences of his moves.
Catherine did not appear to be aware of
Arden's subterfuge. She was amused by the game and by his tricks.
She laughed aloud several times. Upon the second laugh, Margaret
looked up from her sewing and caught Arden's eye. He nodded to her,
looking pleased, and then returned his attention to the
chessboard.
It was the sort of evening Margaret had never
had an opportunity to enjoy before. She realized with a sense of
discovery that this was what she had longed for all of her life – a
quiet, family time, with people of good will, who cared enough
about each other to lay aside their differences and their
individual problems for the sake of others.
When she finally folded up her sewing and
tucked it into a basket for storage until the next night, it also
occurred to her that this was not the sort of relaxing, comfortable
evening she would ever enjoy in a convent, where all activities
were rigorously scheduled. The thought produced a frisson of
unease. She did not have time to consider what her reaction meant,
for Catherine was yawning and declaring her eyes were blurry from
the effort to keep her gaze on the chessboard, lest Arden make a
move she should have foreseen.
“Time enough tomorrow for you to think of
ways to circumvent me,” Arden said, gathering up the carved pieces
and putting them into their wooden box.
“Does that mean you will play with me again
tomorrow?” Catherine asked him.
“If you like,” he responded in a careless
way, having been warned by Margaret not to appear to be too
enthusiastic. According to Margaret, once they had cajoled
Catherine out of her sickbed and into a game with Arden, it was
better to let her think she was taking the lead on the matter of
future, similar evenings.
“Yes, please.” Rising from her chair and
shrugging off the encumbrance of the shawl and quilt, Catherine put
her arms around Arden's waist and hugged him tight. “I’m so glad
you have come home to us at last,” she said. She did not seem to
notice the firm way in which Arden quickly disentangled himself
from her embrace.
After the game board was put away on a shelf
and the solar was restored to its usual neat order, Catherine and
Margaret headed for their own rooms. Bidding them good night, Arden
turned toward the door to the lord's chamber. With his hand on the
latch he looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the two
women. At the same instant Margaret turned from seeing Catherine
into her room. Their gazes connected and held.
Arden released the latch and moved back into
the solar. Margaret took a few slow steps that brought her out of
the corridor as surely as if she were being pulled forward by a
powerful lodestone.
The candles had been extinguished and the
fire banked for the night, though a faint, reddish glow still
showed here and there among the smoldering logs. The glow provided
enough light for Margaret to see Arden's clean-cut, freshly shaven
features and to note that those same features had a softer
appearance than usual, as if he was open to human contact at
last.
They met in the middle of the solar. Without
thinking, wanting only to express her gratitude for Catherine's
sake, Margaret put up her hands. They came to rest on Arden's broad
chest. He put his own hands on top of hers, holding them there.
“Thank you for being so kind to Catherine,”
Margaret said softly.
“It was your idea.” Arden's voice was equally
as soft. “How easily my sister is cheered.”
“She loves you and welcomes your kindness.
You were marvelous with her, teasing and making her laugh, while at
the same time keeping her thoughts occupied.”
“It is the nature of chess to occupy the
player's thoughts completely,” Arden said.
“You must continue in this way,” Margaret
told him. “Let Catherine know that you care about her.”
“So I shall. It's little enough to do.”
His eyes were on her mouth. Margaret's lips
burned from the intensity of his gaze. She saw his lips part, felt
the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She was certain he was going
to kiss her. Worse, she who abhorred a man's touch wanted his lips
on hers. The memory of his hands on her unclothed skin flashed into
her mind. Heaven help her, she wanted that, too.
Suddenly, one of the last logs in the
fireplace cracked and split apart, sending a shower of sparks up
the chimney as the wood collapsed into smoking embers. Arden
released Margaret's hands and stepped away from her.
“Sleep well, Lady Margaret,” he said.
“And you, my lord,” Margaret replied, though
she feared she would have a difficult time finding slumber. She
hurried away to her bedroom across the corridor from Catherine's
room.
Arden returned to the lord's chamber, knowing
full well he was going to spend another sleepless night with his
face buried in sheets that bore the last, faint traces of
Margaret's flowery perfume.
* * * * *
“I have not seen Arden all day.” Catherine
pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the solar window.
“Aldis says he has been with Sir Wace since early morning.”
“There’s much work to be done now the snow
has stopped,” Margaret said, crossing the room to stand beside her
friend. The two of them looked through the small, diamond-shaped
panes of thick glass to the busy scene below. Stableboys, squires,
and men-at-arms were shoveling paths from manor house to barracks,
to stable, and to the other outbuildings. A watery sun shone
through a break in the clouds and the spraying snow sparkled as it
was tossed from the shovels to land in ever-growing mounds along
the pathways.
“Once the courtyard is cleared the horses
will need exercising after so long in their stalls,” Margaret
added. “So will the men crave movement, I think.”
“But the roads will not be passable yet,”
Catherine said, looking worried. “Surely, not yet.”
“If you go to the great hall for the midday
meal, you will see Arden there,” Margaret said, hoping to divert
Catherine from a serious subject that appeared to threaten her
relatively cheerful mood.
Margaret was not certain whether Catherine's
expression of concern was for her, lest Lord Phelan discover where
she was hiding, or whether it indicated a fear that Tristan and his
wife would suddenly appear. It was three days since Margaret and
Arden had begun their joint effort to coax Catherine out of her
depressed state. Each day she was proving a little more responsive
to their suggestions. She was eating again, but only in the
solar.
“I don’t want to go to the great hall,”
Catherine said when Margaret suggested it. “Not yet. It's too soon.
I still tire easily. I prefer to stay here, where it's warm and
quiet. Aldis and I will eat together.”
“Then I will eat here, too,” Margaret said,
adding, “I trust you understand, my dear, that sooner or later you
will have to descend to the hall and even step outside the manor
house door.”
“I know,” Catherine said, “but not just yet,
please. Let me have another day or two of indulging myself, until I
feel entirely recovered.”
That evening, when Arden and Catherine were
putting away the chess set after their usual game, Margaret
returned to the subject of Catherine venturing out of doors. She
expected Arden to back her up and he did not disappoint her.
“When the men have finished shoveling the
paths,” Margaret said, “Catherine and I would like to take a walk.
We have been indoors for too many days.”
“I'm not sure about that,” Catherine began in
a faltering voice.
“I am,” Arden's firm interruption cut across
her objections. “Sir Wace is telling one and all that another heavy
snowstorm is on the way and I have personally observed him limping.
Therefore, my ladies, I suggest you take full advantage of this
interval, for there can be no doubt we will all be snowed in again
before long.”
“Thank you, Arden.” Looking greatly relieved
at the prospect of more snow, Catherine rose on tiptoe to kiss her
brother's cheek.
“Thank you for what?” he asked.
“I know what you’re doing, dear brother,”
Catherine said, gazing into his wintery eyes. “You and Margaret,
together. I am not a complete featherbrain, for all I've been
acting like one in recent days.”
“We need not speak of this,” Arden said. “I
have no wish to make you unhappy all over again.” He tried to move
away from her, but Catherine clutched more tightly at his
shoulders.
“I must speak of it,” she said, “and have it
out and done with. The news of Tristan's marriage signaled the end
of all my most cherished hopes and dreams. But if you still love
me, Arden, if we can still be close friends as we once were, then I
ought not to mourn the necessity of waking from a dream. I will
henceforth cease my lovelorn foolishness and, instead, I will
rejoice at having my brother home again, safe and whole and well. I
will also be grateful that, thanks to Margaret's care and Aldis'
devoted attentions, I have almost recovered from an illness that
was all too real and rather frightening to me. However, I do warn
you, if you stop your attempts to teach me to play chess, I will
immediately suffer a serious relapse.” Her last words were spoken
with an enchanting smile and accompanied by another kiss to Arden's
cheek.
Margaret, who was standing behind Catherine,
was well placed to note Arden's startled expression at his sister's
words, and to see the bewilderment in his eyes. While Catherine was
recovering nicely, Arden was anything but whole and well. Margaret
was painfully aware of the barren chill that pervaded his being,
which Catherine, in her feverish illness, had overlooked. When
Catherine was fully cured of her lovesickness over Tristan, when
she was restored to her usual spirits and good health, would she
then regard her brother with eyes that saw what Margaret saw?
“Good night,” Catherine said, patting Arden's
cheek. Looking at Margaret she asked, “Are you ready for bed?”
“In a little while,” Margaret said. “I want
to speak to the cook before I retire.”
“What a good friend you’ve been to me,”
Catherine said, hugging her. “Beginning tomorrow I shall remove
some of the burden you have been carrying from your shoulders. It's
not right for a guest to work so hard.” With a wave of her hand,
Catherine took herself off to bed.
“It would appear that your remedy has been
successful,” Arden said to Margaret when they were alone in the
solar.
“A little too successful,” Margaret
responded. As she spoke, she went to the nearest of the four long
windows and began to close the shutters for the night. “Catherine's
recovery has been too sudden for my liking. She is clever enough to
detect what we are about, as you have just heard. I do not think we
should end our efforts in her behalf.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Arden knew he was
agreeing much too readily, yet he could not help himself. “I do
confess, I have found the last few evenings remarkably pleasant. My
little sister has grown up into an interesting young woman.” He did
not add that he also found Margaret interesting. And enticing. And
mysterious, for all her apparent openness.
“Tell me, Lady Margaret, what do you think of
while Catherine and I play chess and you sit so quietly plying your
needle?”
“Why, I think of the sewing, my lord. Nothing
more.” She closed and latched a pair of shutters and moved on to
the next window. How could she tell Arden about the wayward
imaginings that made a family grouping out of the three of them?
How tell him that she was learning to delight in the sound of his
voice when he spoke to her or to his sister, or that she was
storing up memories of those evenings, to treasure them later, when
she had nothing but a bare, conventual cell and a life that was
once again ordered for her in every detail by others? How could she
explain to a man accustomed to making his own decisions that the
time she was spending confined at Bowen Manor by snow was, in fact,
the greatest freedom she had ever known?